


Our Heart In Two Pieces

by PinkAfroPuffs



Category: Fate/Grand Order
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Feelings, Gen, Intimacy is found in the lighting of the cigarette butt, Lockets, Mutual Pining, Smoking, Temple of time spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-24
Updated: 2021-02-24
Packaged: 2021-03-14 17:49:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29670990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PinkAfroPuffs/pseuds/PinkAfroPuffs
Summary: Whether the young woman knew it or not, they were on the cusp of something. A something that he may breathe life into, no matter what it might cost him. Would Dantes receive the gift? Edmond Dantes? That honest fisherman who perished in the Chateau D’if? Would the Count of Monte Cristo?Could he, if he was neither nor?Should he?Another puff of smoke. This cigarette was almost done, and it was all the time he’d told himself he needed for the matter. A thick, white cloud of smoke blew slowly from his mouth as he sighed just so; he snubbed out the flame in the ashtray as he passed, and, with an even heavier sigh, he pulled out another cig and lit it, leaning back against the wall as he did so.He supposed it was most fitting this way. If this man was to have a heart, it should not be his own. It would be stolen from someone else.
Relationships: Edmond Dantès | Avenger/Fujimaru Ritsuka
Comments: 3
Kudos: 12





	Our Heart In Two Pieces

**Author's Note:**

> commission for xviicprc! I hope you enjoy this and have a wonderful week!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Dingy copper, small and cold; a sliver of silver, a scrap of gold. She held the locket up to the light in that marketplace, enchanted by it as the metal hit the light. On that lonely night in Rome, Cyra Kuromaki found a pair of unsuspecting necklaces from a vendor for cheap; though clearly being sold as ‘used’ they looked brand new, complete with sturdy, thin chains that weren’t rusted in the slightest, and engraving on the heart near the middle as she held it up to the light. Though she only thought of it as a souvenir at first, her mind went back to a person she thought a lot of, despite not always being around. 

The cold metal felt special, somehow, and, though she was a bit uncomfortable to give gifts she hadn’t made with her own hands, she felt the pull to buy them and keep them on her even when they Rayshifted home. As the Doctor gave the debriefing and finished with a “Good job!” that made her sigh in relief, she found herself wondering when would be a good time to give this thing to the shadow of the man called Edmond Dantes.

She stood in her room, holding the locket in her pocket as she yawned, and then said, “Count? Where are you?”

At first, there came no answer. Though usually impatient, she only shifted a little on her bed and stood up to walk over to her desk before her shadow bubbled. Slowly rising from the inky black came Edmond Dantes- or as he liked to say, the Shadow of the Man Formerly Known as Edmond Dantes. Since Cyra thought this was a mouthful, she simply called him “Count”. 

He was materializing behind her, back to back with her, and for a while they just stayed like that as Cyra hummed. “A question you ask far too often,” came his amused response, a laugh bursting from the abyss. “How can your shadow leave you?”

A viscous grin broke out on her face, almost as dangerous as the shadow’s own. “I like checking.”

Now, Cyra Kuromaki and The Count of Monte Cristo had known each other from their time in prison. Though the idea was in no way glamorous or romantic, Cyra often thought of him as her closest friend and confidant. Since coming to Chaldea- in a manner of speaking- the two had grown closer to one another, despite both of them knowing that the man she’d spent time with in Chateau D'if- a French prison renowned for only having one person since its founding escape- was not the shadow of Dantes that stood before her. 

The glint of a single gold iris met her from the darkness before his form settled and a rather calm expression flickered across his face. This was how he always looked. She might even call it a part of his condition as an Avenger. 

“I got you something.” She said, digging deep into the pockets of her blue hoodie- which she’d pulled on over her Mystic Code, as it was her favorite piece of clothing and in one of her favorite colors. Under his curious gaze, her fingers brushed over the twin pendants; carefully, she took one of them out and said, “Here.”

For a moment, the Avenger simply looked at the chipped gold piece, no doubt appraising it. Then as he reached for it to inspect it- but not quite take it- his voice grew soft, no louder than a whisper. “Is it a special occasion, my partner in crime?”

“Well,” no, actually, it was not, but, “I thought...we’re getting close to meeting Solomon now, and-” And? And what? What was she thinking? What  _ had _ she been thinking? All of those thoughts flew out of her head so swiftly her mouth clamped shut.

Still, the Count was looking at her, somewhat subdued as an anxious something knit upon his brow. He waited rather patiently as she got her bearings and organized her words properly. 

“...for our friendship.” Cyra decided, looking into his eyes. “Aren’t we friends, Count?”

To this, the Avenger did not answer. Instead he only closed his eyes as though thinking about that very thing, a pause that went on for so long it became a gulf between them.

“Friends,” he said, “are you sure of this?” 

It was not angry or even accusatory; merely, “friends” was the tip of the iceberg, an all too  _ simple _ word to describe their relationship. His tone was quite even, his hands still at his side as he inhaled and exhaled very slowly, shoulders back before he opened his eyes to look at her. Then, with one hand outstretched, a simple nod as he waited for her to press it into his palm. 

Excited, she couldn’t stop herself from smiling a little as his black-gloved fingers closed around it; with her free hand, she took out the other heart-shaped pendant, its pair, and showed him. “Will you help me put on mine?”

A pause. With a soft  _ hm _ , the soles of his shoes clicked as moved around her, his gestures purposeful and swift; there was no time to even gasp before he was behind her, hands gently tangling in her chocolate brown hair for just a moment before he swept it aside. 

It was always strange when the Count was close to her; he smelled like strong black coffee and expensive cologne, like some of the older men she’d known in her own hometown. Maybe that was why she liked him so much. There were a lot of things about the Count that felt like home. 

Gingerly, he lifted the necklace from between her index and forefingers; deft but strong and covered by black gloves, his own fastened the pendant behind her neck, his index finger lingering by her ear. Soft, confused heat rose to meet his fingertips; a little flustered for whatever reason, excitedly she said, “Now let me do yours!”

Another hum escaped him. Though she didn’t know what she was expecting, he moved beside her, pausing before he closed his eyes and removed his hat. She reached around his neck to put it on; as he was quite a bit taller than she was, her arms weren’t long enough to reach him from where gravity and genetics decided to nerf her. Cyra started the procedure by standing on her tip-toes and struggling to fasten the clasp before he leaned down, the curling white of his hair brushing past her ears as he did. 

The weird impulse to touch his hair seized her so quickly she almost gave in to it; it looked soft but also coarse, wisps of silvery white floating only a bit by his own monstrous aura- which, at the moment, seemed quite subdued. Her hands, usually steady (as she was an artist and was quite practiced in the precise) suddenly shook, fussing with the clasp for what felt like a bit too long….but the Count paid it no mind, patiently waiting, unmoving, as she finished her task. 

“Got it.” For a moment neither of them moved- and when they did, it was Cyra, who patted the back of his coat to smooth it out- though when they finally separated, their eyes did not meet.

“It looks good, though!” She exclaimed, watching as it swung from his neck, and his eyes flickered into hers. 

He smiled. It was a soft sort of smile, contained only in his eyes, that made her feel...strange. But she only smiled back, glad that her gift had been received. 

_ “All staff, hands on deck! Cyra Kuromaki and Mash Kyrielight, please report to the Command Room at 08:00 _ !” Came a familiar voice over the intercom. When a moment had passed, the voice said, “ _ That’s in fifteen minutes, please!” _ before another voice warned, “Romani,” came from behind the speaker, and the voice began again, this time more professionally. “ _ Please be prepared to Rayshift at a moment’s notice. Thank you.” _

The sound made her jump out of her skin. “What-”

Still smiling, the Count only shrugged his shoulders, his form sinking into her shadow, a charmingly inky mess of her co-conspirator. “ _ It seems you and I must get back to work. Keep your head above water, Cyra. Lest the tides catch you off guard.” _

A warning. He was really good at those. Sometimes she wanted to ask if he had clairvoyance, but he’d probably just laugh about it. 

“...thanks...Count.” Mumbled Cyra, struggling with feelings so complex that she could only look down at her feet. 

* * *

Truthfully, Cyra didn’t always look forward to Rayshifts, but maybe, with this one being more dangerous, she’d see the Count again. Tripping over her things and hitting her forehead on her bed frame- which hurt so much it left a bruise right in the middle of her head, thankfully hidden by her bangs- she rushed to get dressed and chugged a bottle of water before skipping out of the room, going so fast she nearly knocked straight into Mash.

“This time,” said Romani, as they arrived for debriefing with a serious glint in his green eyes, “we’ll face our greatest challenge yet. The Age of Gods. Babylonia, better known as Uruk.”

There was some excited chatter, and before Cyra knew it, she was in a coffin in her new command code, and they were catapulted into the age of gods. How sad. Dantes wouldn’t possibly come here, would he? She tried not to lament this as she tightened her scarf around her shoulders and headed to meet the king, but found herself unable to shake the thought.

He’d be there if she needed him. 

****

It had been a long time since he had worn anything of value that was not specifically for fooling others into thinking he had been born into wealth. From the time he spent at sea to the time he lost unlawfully captured in prison, the man formerly known as Edmond Dantes had never been one to carry on him things of sentimental value. No, those things- the practicality of the vengeance he sought, the life he led before all of this- were the only things that were the same about the two men, the two sides of the wretched coin that were The Count of Monte Cristo and Edmond Dantes. One of those sides had been scratched out so forcefully that he considered that man dead now- a name like a scar that never healed over, a pitiful stain on the lives of the rich, the poor, and the jealous alike. That man had a father. A fiance. A life.

The Count of Monte Cristo did not.

The shadow of that man only pondered these things in silence- as he was prone to do around the late haze of the sunset; a denizen of the dark could only find respite in the end of a day and beginning of the night. Though the light would not physically hurt him- he was not a vampire, after all- what it symbolized was far too chafing for his tastes. That shell of a man only resided in the vents, and occasionally in the Writer’s Room in Chaldea, if only because those menaces liked it dark and dank (and occasionally had very good coffee). 

He took a long drag from his smoke. Had there been any time that he’d been given a gift with no strings attached? No. There had not. And yet he knew this of Cyra- she was not one to lie outright to his face, nor did she have it in her to be truly ingenuine. It was what he admired most about her. Though the two were alike, the many ways in which they differed made them suit one another in ways he felt remiss to admit…

The remnant of gold in his palm glinted under the fluorescent lights. An empty locket for an empty hearted man. Ah, but. Should he leave it empty? Thoughtfully, he closed his eyes and hummed to himself. Those he loved were long gone. The father of Edmond Dantes, the lover, the friends, had all perished or moved on. 

Perhaps it would be fitting, he thought, to place Cyra’s picture in it. 

Whether the young woman knew it or not, they were on the cusp of something. A something that he may breathe life into, no matter what it might cost him. Would Dantes receive the gift? Edmond Dantes? That honest fisherman who perished in the Chateau D’if? Would the Count of Monte Cristo?

Could he, if he was neither nor?

Should he?

Another puff of smoke. This cigarette was almost done, and it was all the time he’d told himself he needed for the matter. A thick, white cloud of smoke blew slowly from his mouth as he sighed just so; he snubbed out the flame in the ashtray as he passed, and, with an even heavier sigh, he pulled out another cig and lit it, leaning back against the wall as he did so.

He supposed it was most fitting this way. If this man was to have a heart, it should not be his own. It would be stolen from someone else.

* * *

The end of the world was a crisis that had been averted, and at the edge of it all, Cyra sat on her own, staring out at the sunset. 

An open locket sat in her palm with one picture inside. A group photo of a family she didn’t think she needed but definitely had was placed within it, complete with a man who would never speak to her again. A man who would never eat her snacks again. Or do her checkups. Or have hot cocoa with. 

A single raindrop splattered on the group photo, then another. The skies were clear, so she rubbed her eyes.

Heaviness settled over her for a moment, and then simply on her shoulders; eyes red as she looked up, Cyra’s blurry gaze settled only on the coatless, hatless Count, who was casually taking a cigarette out of his pocket, eyes closing as moved to slowly sit beside her. Wordlessly, he leaned towards her with it. Sniffling, she fumbled in her pocket for the lighter she carried only for him, and struck it once, twice, three times before it sparked flame for his cigarette.

She sniffled again, this time snuggling deeper into his coat. Suspiciously warm, for a dead man. He blew out a puff of smoke away from her, clearly out of courtesy though the two were outside in the cold weather. 

“They are celebrating inside.” He said, though he did not look at her, the two of their eyes fixed on the sunset. “It will be colder soon.”

Cyra only shifted from her place in the snow. Then she said, “So?”

“Hm,” was all he said, though he sounded a bit like he was smiling. “Rebellious in your grief, as always.” Another puff of smoke, the somewhat peaceful sigh of a tired man. “It was good of me to choose you.”

Cold as it may have been, her heart felt warm hearing that. “Count?”

He made no answer, though he did turn towards her, an eyebrow inclined to her.

Mitten-clad fingers wrapped around her locket again. “Thank you.”

“Hm.”

Silence. Though no words passed between them, Cyra didn’t feel anxious about it. Was this what they meant by ‘comfortable silence’? She’d never had that before. Mostly, she was used to shouting or tense, strained silence, dried grass that would break out into a field full of flames. A thought occurred to her sometime after that; locket still in her palms, she said, “Hey, Count.”

“Mm.”

“Can I take a picture of you?”

A pause. And then, “Let me finish my cigarette.”

* * *

The photograph was no bigger than his index finger, the locket no bigger than his palm; once the two met, the shadow of the man he had been, would be, was, clutched it with one gloved hand, hat tilting down as he lost himself in his thoughts.

“Tell me,” his voice was low, “will this suffice? When you can no longer see me and the two of us are too far apart to exchange words?”

It was not a question of satisfaction, but of something lying beneath it; though Cyra was not big on looking too deeply into things that the Count said, his intention was obvious.

So she said, “No.” 

The two exchanged a glance, one that seemed so long the world stopped keeping time, and then the Count, taking out another cigarette, held it out for her to light, before uttering a single word between the two, just loud enough for Cyra to hear.

“Good.” A satisfied puff of smoke, between one accomplice and another, his chuckle almost infectious to Cyra’s ears as she leaned close to him. “Very, very good.”


End file.
